


Kindling

by Fincher



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, Arson, Fire, Introspection?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fincher/pseuds/Fincher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he has been here before.<br/>A/N: Preview word count stuck at 222. But there are only 221, I swear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> I have been reading fanfiction for a while, and I thought I would try my hand at writing it. Criticism, suggestions, marshmallows, etc., are welcome and appreciated!

He was nearing the exit. The smoke was thicker here, obscuring his vision and burrowing into his lungs. He should be staying low to the ground- _decreased probability of succumbing to smoke inhalation, common sense, John would be so thrilled-_ but that would mean slowing his pace, and there was no time. It had taken him longer than anticipated to slip his bonds- _handcuffed to the radiator, dull-_ and pick the lock of the small room- _concussed, uncoordinated, nauseous, remember to duck in future-_ where he had been imprisoned while the suspect coated the ground floor with lighter fluid, struck a match and fled.

The suspect- _Douglas Cartwright, 46, arsonist, did not intend to commit previous murders, intentions clearly not static in the face of impending incarceration-_ had panicked in spectacular fashion. This latest conflagration was a testament to that.

Sherlock passed the drawing room. The heat was nearly intolerable; he narrowed his eyes and shielded his face with his forearm. Unbidden, a memory surfaced. Age seven, adrift, sneaking into the kitchen to feed paper to the lit stove. Not understanding why, in the midst of so much _energy,_ he did not combust as well.

A wooden beam dropped from the ceiling. Sherlock shook himself back to the present, and the moment rushed past. He could not deny that the inferno beckoned.


End file.
